


Before and after the storm.

by Directionless_Foray



Series: InSignificance [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, FIFA World Cup 2014, I missed my babies and watching them hug nearly killed me, I'm not exactly sure what to put here, M/M, This is what I imagine happened, World Cup, and plenty of it, first fic nerves, so I'm just "tumblr" word vomitting, so this happened, what an eloquent way of starting my first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 00:11:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2129736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Directionless_Foray/pseuds/Directionless_Foray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hurts, it won't ever stop hurting.</p><p>The scars are still fresh. </p><p>He can only ignore it for so long.</p><p>Two old friends meet again. Old wounds are reopened. Cages are escaped out of and new ones built.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before and after the storm.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah this is my first piece. I am FULLY aware how late this is ("late ALREADY?!") but I fought long and hard with myself over whether or not I would write this and ended up deciding I couldn't NOT write it ("tsk tsk double negative.") So here it is. I should also preface this with the fact that I am quite new to the footie fandom (only a few years) so I'm not the most knowledgeable, definitely let me know if anything is painfully incorrect. My very first fic and I would love feedback but please be gentle with my extremely fragile feelings, I am fully aware the piece is probably rife with spelling and grammatical errors. Apologies in advance.

_It hurts, it will never stop hurting._

To be honest Mesut hasn’t thought about it. That was blatant lie, it’s been hard not to, every single time his mind tentatively brushes over the topic Mesut has to forcibly avert his attention elsewhere. However, standing in that new and yet ironically familiar tunnel with, also familiar, sweaty hands and a clear mind… well, it’s a bit harder to keep those thoughts at bay. Something in his chest, suspiciously close to his heart, clenches.

_The scars are still fresh._

It’s not even a consideration that he misses him as well. Mesut was but a mere speck of colour in the bright mural of his life, both fleeting and insignificant. How could he ever, in any realm of reality, matter to _him_. He can only ignore it for so long. His hands are so sweaty. He can’t breathe. That’s an exaggeration, _a **hyperbole** his mind supplies_. Oh wait. It’s not. It's really not. His hands are clenched tight and he can’t breathe.

“Mesut!”

He looks up from those pathetic clenched fists and into warm brown eyes that are so familiar yet he knows should not be, not anymore.

“Mesut…”

The fond voice trails off and Mesut finds himself smiling involuntarily. It feels like stretching after a long run, _he hasn’t smiled in ages_. He smiles gently back at him, Cris, his Cri-, his frie-… at Cris. The answering smile is bright enough to compete with galaxies and easily with the cameras no doubt waiting outside. Slowly Mesut’s smile fades, the little voice scathingly reminds him _insignificant, insignificant_. His lips melt into a thin line of poorly veiled pain. Cris’ eyebrows knit in confusion. He opens his mouth and moves towards him but abruptly stops.

 

_Mesut! Mesut! Mesut! Mesut! His mind chants like it’s a prayer. (Maybe, deep down, he knows that’s exactly what it is.)_

He steps back but his eyes never leave Mesut’s face. Those eyes ask a thousand questions. Cris’ hands clench around thin air, a few years ago that might have been Mesut’s hand instead. Mesut tries to smile, he knows that’s what you’re meant to do in this sort of situation. The smile is so brittle and so pained it doesn’t work, not even slightly. A muscle jumps in Cris’ jaw. _This is it_  Mesut thinks with an air of tired resignation, _he’s going to tell me how little I mean, **meant,** to him_. Fabio taps Cristiano on the shoulder, probably to move him along, but he shakes him off, doesn't even look at him. Mesut blinks and when he opens his eyes he’s right in front of him. Thomas turns around but Cris doesn’t even acknowledge him. Thomas throws Mesut a bemused look, then and again it could be a worried one but Mesut doesn’t have too long to think about it. He doesn’t have time to think because Cris is wrapping his arms, arms long enough to wrap around the world and strong enough to bear the expectations of a nation, around _Mesut._

Sami coughs amusedly, _when did he appear? When did they enter the tunnel? When did they get separated? When did **they** get **separated?**_ Cris immediately engulfs Sami in a hug but his stormy gaze is still locked on Mesut. Begrudgingly Mesut forces his legs to keep moving. Suddenly its bright, it’s so bright and Mesut feels his façade cracking, can hear it over the roar of the fans. Although he can’t smile, not just yet, he feels the smallest seedling of hope take root in his bruised and battered heart and the chant of _insignificant insignificant…_ grows a fraction fainter.

Mesut Özil. Hurt. Weary. Determined. Mesut Özil raises a hand to the crowd.

 

Whilst Mesut’s finely crafted façade slowly but surely crumbles to ruins Cris’ heart shatters into sharp jagged pieces over and over again. His mind refuses to stop chanting Mesut’s name like a damn prayer. He clenches his jaw and wills himself not to fall to his knees.

His mind drags him back into his past, back into his bed, _**their** bed a voice reminds him_. All he can hear is a painfully fond:

_“You do that you know,”_

_“Do what?”_

_“Wear your heart on your sleeve.”_

Cristiano Ronaldo. Legend. Broken. Fighter. Exhausted. Hero. Hollow.

Cristiano Ronaldo breaks into as many pieces as cheers in the stadium.

**Author's Note:**

> *HEAVY BREATHING* hEY FRIENDS WHAT DID YOU tHINK?!?


End file.
